


Baker Street Boxing Day Special

by kaihire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boxing Day, Hangover, M/M, gratuitous use of lab equipment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:12:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaihire/pseuds/kaihire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is hungover. Sherlock helps. Sort of.</p>
<p>Happy Boxing Day!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baker Street Boxing Day Special

**Author's Note:**

  * For [indyfalcon on Tumblr](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=indyfalcon+on+Tumblr).



‘Twas the day after Christmas, and all through the house, only one creature was stirring: an insufferable bastard of a consulting detective, who was determined to make his long-suffering live-in doctor as miserable as humanly possible—in the spirit of giving, of course.

“What is that  _bloody_  noise?” came the anguished, hungover cry from upstairs. Sherlock smirked, not looking up from the vial he was holding above the Bunsen burner. Beside him, two pressure pots were making an ungodly howling noise. The odor of sulfur permeated the room, as well as the burnt miasma left behind by nutmeg that he’d immolated moments previously.

“An experiment,” Sherlock said in a distracted, conversational tone. If John wanted to have a discussion, he could very well come downstairs.

One of the pressure-release valves gave a high-pitched wheeze, while its twin rattled alarmingly against the empty metal container Sherlock had thoughtfully placed behind it.

“For fuck’s sake!”

“Ah, John, you’re awake.”

More or less. John Watson stood at the bottom of the stairs in rumpled striped pajamas, his hair sticking up at interesting angles, the pillow creases on his face making it obvious he’d slept on his right side. He clutched a blanket defensively to his chest.

“I’m going. To murder you,” John said quietly.

“Nonsense. Wouldn’t fit your personality type one bit. You’d need a better  _modus operandi_.”

John twitched.

“What is that  _smell_?”

“Experiment,” Sherlock drawled, as if talking to a very slow child. “Pass me the vacuum canister.”

John started to shamble over towards the table before stopping himself.

“No.  _No_ , Sherlock. You know what? Most people use today to sleep off all the alcohol from Christmas dinner. People like me. Which, you know, if you’d actually come to Greg’s party—”

“Dull.” He added another two drops from an eyedropper into the vial and hummed, pleased with the result, when the liquid contents turned a startling shade of orange and started to fizzle. “Overcooked turkey, undercooked potatoes, and horrid music.”

“You aren’t meant to go for the food, you’re meant to go for the—”

“—utterly banal social interaction.” Sherlock glanced up at John. “Spare me the details, I’m sure it was as  _earth-shattering_  as last year’s party.”

John opened his mouth. John closed his mouth. John threw his hands up in the air, growled something subvocal, and started making tea. Two cups. The corners of Sherlock’s lips lifted in a smile when the doctor wasn’t looking.

“Aren’t you going to ask what I’m making?” the detective asked, stirring the contents of the vial into a beaker. It hissed, and the pressure pot gave an ominous pop that made John drop a spoon and nearly fumble the milk carton.

“I— No, I’m not. I simply don’t  _care_. Do you know  _why_  I don’t care? Because the kitchen smells like Satan’s armpit and my roommate is making enough noise that even if I’d taken Lestrade up on his offer to pass out on his couch, I would  _still_  be getting a migraine from the racket.”

“Hair of the dog.”

“…do what?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stirred the contents of the beaker. He shut off the pressure pots and released the valves. A mug appeared next to him, just out of the way of any stray elbows, and he didn’t have to look to see that it was just the way he liked: two sugars, dash of milk, and the teabag left in to oversteep. John had his advantages, even if he was sometimes—always—painfully slow to process basic information.

“Hair of the dog, John. Isn’t that how the saying goes? If you’re hungover, you should have more alcohol.”

John snorted quietly.

“That doesn’t actually work, you know. A hangover is—”

“—primarily dehydration and is best alleviated with rehydration and electrolyte replenishment. But you won’t drink sports drinks, so I’m making something better.”

“Oh god.”

“A special blend of eggnog, with the addition of precisely the right amount of ingredients to get you feeling human again in no time. Because I’ll be requiring your assistance with more vigorous activities this afternoon, and I simply must have you sharp.”

Sherlock gave the beaker a final, measured stir, sprinkled on a frightening quantity of nutmeg, and held it out to John, beaming, clearly rather proud of himself.

John blanched.

“You can’t possibly expect me to drink that,” he said weakly.

“Why ever not? It’s perfectly safe, I assure you.”

“Then  _you_  drink it.”

“I’m not the one who needs it.” Sherlock stood up and pressed the beaker into John’s hesitant hands.

“This is part of your plan to murder me slowly with poison, isn’t it,” John muttered, staring into the beaker.

“Nonsense, John. If I wanted to murder you slowly, I would—”

John held up his hand.

“Don’t tell me. I’d rather not see it coming.” He squeezed his eyes closed in anticipation and took a quick, experimental swig of the opaque, milky-white contents of the beaker. Then blinked, and took another sip. “This is fantastic, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sniffed.

“I could have told you that.”

“No, really. This is the best eggnog I’ve ever had. How did you..?”

“Old family recipe. I started by with a denaturation of—”

John held up his hand. And finished the beaker.

“I would really rather not know. And what’s this that you’ll be wanting me for later?”

Sherlock smirked, sitting smugly back in his chair.

“An experiment, John.  _Obviously_.”

John rolled his eyes, but he knew an invitation when he saw it, leaning down to press a peevish kiss against Sherlock’s lips.

“I’ll make sure the first aid kit is well-stocked, then.”


End file.
